


Dum Spiro Spero

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (just mentions of it), Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Season Four-ish, Statement Confessions, but the Eye ships it so it's fine, don't think too hard about when this takes place, they're both disasters okay, waxing poetic about what it means to be human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29339892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding the enduring humanity of Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 81





	Dum Spiro Spero

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, TMA fandom! Thrilled to be joining you all for the first time :D

It was a normal Thursday in the Archives. That is, with the exception that when Jon arrived at his desk at precisely 9:03 am, there was a thick binder and two tapes waiting for him. They were labeled #1, #2. 

He popped #1 into the recorder before he'd consciously decided on the action, instinctively pressing play. 

Martin's voice filled the room. 

_Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding the enduring humanity of Jonathan Sims, The Archivist_. 

Jon fell hard into his chair. "...shit." 

_Statement given February 6th, 2017. Audio recording by Martin Blackwood, assistant to The Archivist. Statement begins._

_I... I was fetching tea the other day. Nothing unusual about that, right? And it wasn't. Unusual, I mean. Except that I, um, eavesdropped a little bit. Couldn't help it, really. That just seems to be an urge nowadays and I... gave into it. Overheard you—that is, the subject, Jonathan Sims, speaking to Daisy Tonner about whether he was still human and, despite her reassurances, he seemed to have come to the conclusion that he was not. Not anymore._

Amidst the whirring of the tape Martin took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. 

_He's wrong. Jonathan Sims is incorrect in his belief that he is no longer human and I intend to use this statement to prove as much. That's what I've been told we do here, by him. We're researchers, so... I researched, and I have plenty of evidence to back my argument up. Any listeners are welcome to refer to the accompanying bibliography, if they want._

Slowly, hands shaking, Jon pulled the binder across his desk. It appeached to be a rather large collection of printed articles, photocopied excerpts from books, and a few loose-leaf notes written in Martin's distinctive, slanting hand. The entire collection was numbered one through fifty-eight. They were also color coded. 

_Right then, uh... I guess I'll get started. These aren't in any particular order, so... okay. Here goes._

_Number one: the human body. Humans are, obviously, distinctive and a lot of what makes us human is tied to what our bodies have allowed us to accomplish. Things like a large brain and opposable thumbs have done alright by us the last couple million years, huh? Now, I know what you're thinking,_ _'Really, Martin. Are you just going to ignore the number of monsters we've met who can perfectly mimic human physiology?'_

Jon choked on air, startled by the—surprisingly passible—imitation of his own voice. 

_And no, no I'm not. It's just one factor out of many here, is all. Like if you were defining... I don't know. A cake. Cake's have flour, yeah? Well, so do scones. A cake isn't_ not _a cake just because something else has one of its ingredients, and Jon isn't not a human just because monsters have some human-y aspects too. Cake still needs the flour to build structure and Jon still needs... uh, wait. I've kind of lost the metaphor. But you know what I mean! Jon is a bipedal, big brained, opposable-thumb wielding guy, not some long-limbed horror show playing human dress up._

 _As for the parts of him that are admittedly different now, well... it's a bit ableist, isn't it? To just assume that because he's physically different that makes him less human? So what if he's lost two ribs? Or if his eyes go wonky sometimes when he reads a statement? How is that fundamentally any different from someone developing cataracts, or being born with Spondylocostal Dysplasia? Um, I think I pronounced that last bit correctly... Anyway, there's a lot of interesting literature about humanity being tied to the mind, o-or the_ soul, _not the body. If I meet some grisly fate and have to have my consciousness transferred into a robot or something, I'd still be_ Martin. _I think. Well, Jon is still Jon, I know that much, even though he's got supernatural worm scars and sometimes looks like he's about to float. He walks, talks, sleeps, eats, still goes to the bathroom far as I can tell! Er, sorry. It's all still there though, just a little different than how I'm built, or Basira, or Melanie. But that's not a bad thing._

 _Oh! I also read somewhere that humans are the only species to blush and I've definitely seen Jon blush before. Just last week Daisy told him his long hair looked nice, even though it was an exploitable weakness now, and he got so flustered he nearly dropped his coffee. I think it was just because Daisy's... like that. Intense. Not big on complimenting people either, so when it happens you're kind of off-kilter for the rest of the day. But yeah, I'm sure stuttering a shocked 'Thank you' and nearly spilling coffee down your jumper is_ so _monstrous._

Jon snorted at the sarcasm, biting hard into his lower lip. 

_Anyway, um, back on track. Number Two: creativity and forethought. Another aspect that defines our humanity is the ability to think about alternate futures and plan for them accordingly. Basic if/then constructions, I guess. Like, 'If I bug Melanie after 3:00pm then she'll threaten me with a knife!' and picturing that future helps me make good decisions that don't lead to knife futures. Part of that stems from our ability to learn from past mistakes—ha, I'm real good at that!—but it's also our ability to imagine things that, logically, we have no reason to think_ could _exist. Or exist too far off to, you know, be worthwhile. But we imagine them anyway and that's when you get cool things like invention, the very building blocks of civilization._

 _Now, I'm not saying Jon is a good planner. He's not. Like, he ran into the Unknowing with a bunch of C-4, an axe, and that's_ it. _Objectively terrible. But there's no doubt he's able to imagine possible futures for himself—and us—even if they're usually stupid ones. Because he's not some rational, calculating machine either. He's... he's not like Elias, I guess, sitting on some imagined throne and moving us around like chess pieces. Jon imagines dumb futures like, 'What if I didn't leave my office for two days?' and thinks the outcome to that will be, 'Nothing bad happens,' only to be blindsided by us literally dragging him out for takeaway. If that were Elias it would all turn out to be an elaborate plot where us ordering Indian somehow furthers nefarious plans three months down the line. Jon? Jon just needs to eat some butter chicken and naan._

_None of which even touches on the act of recording and archiving as storytelling. Jon has all these notes, yeah? But sometimes, when he's thinking really hard, he'll starts doodling too..._

It went on like that for an hour, then two, Martin's voice moving through his list methodically, sometimes passionately, but always with the semi-distanced air of a pretend scholar. Like blushing and garlic naan were very serious subjects indeed. Except they were, astoundingly, because Jon hung on every word, seeping up the arguments like a thirsting man chugs water. His sense of individuality, culture, social cues and morals, the claim that coming back from the dead wasn't _really_ as strange as uncommon as you might think... all of it evidence for his enduring humanity. A catalogued feast of information willingly laid bare. By the time it was nearing lunch, Jon found himself full of an emotion he didn't dare name. 

He had assumed that tape #2 was a continuation of Martin's argument. How many points he'd prefaced and how many they'd covered were blurred, Jon continually wiping at eyes that burned solely from lack of sleep, thank you. When the first cut out he slipped the second in immediately, both desperate for and dreading what else it might bring. 

He was right to. 

Jon blinked as the tape began seemingly at random, Martin's voice arriving halfway through a syllable and... different. Gone was the nervous, amateurly academic tone of the first recording and in its place there was near shouting, the audio growing stronger and fainter at periodic intervals, like Martin was pacing the room. He sounded pissed. He sounded _drunk_. 

_—nother thing! I shouldn't have to spend weeks—weeks!—researching a bunch of philosophical_ bullshit—

Jon jerked, the curse nearly sending him to the floor. 

_—in order to prove that you've still got a sliver of humanity left in you because guess what? It's insulting! It is, frankly, insulting that you would be all, 'Oh, I'm a monster, I'm evil, I'm unlovable' blah blah blah when clearly_ I still love you! 

There was silence for a moment. Separated by two doors and twelve hours, Jon shut his eyes. 

. _..there. I said it. Don't know why I shouldn't. Not like the whole Archive hasn't know for, what? Three years? I'm not ashamed of it anymore, okay, and I'm not blind to what everyone else thinks either. There goes poor Martin, pining after the guy who doesn't have time for him at best, wouldn't mind if he got taken by some supernatural entity at worst. I'm not stupid and sure, yeah, maybe there's some truth there. That a part of me will always love you, even if you did go all feral god on us, but that's not the same thing as loving you_ now. _I have standards, Jon. Not like any of you would think it, but it's true. My self-esteem isn't so low and my—my—my_ loneliness _is not so great that I would continually throw myself at a monster hell bent on humanity's destruction. Who does that? I—I mean sure, there are plenty of people who do like monsters in, um, in a fantasy way. Like, uh, online and stuff... but that's not the point! The point is that you're a bastard for thinking so little of yourself when that reflects badly on me. Martin Blackwood is not so pathetic that he'd pine after some eldritch horror, so clearly you're not. You're just not! How's that for a thesis?_

Silence again, except for the distinct sound of chugging from a bottle. Faintly, almost too quiet to catch, came a petulant, _God this tastes awful._

Jon buried his head in his arms, still hearing, trying not to see. 

_I'm not even the best example,_ Martin said, sounding tired now. Defeated. _It's not like you actually have to take my worth at face value. What about Basira, Jon? Daisy. Melanie. Georgie. Even Tim if... if Tim were still here. It's not like all of us interact with you purely because we're stuck here. I mean yeah, I guess that's part of it, but it's not all of it. Elias' stupid curse—trap—prison thingy doesn't make Melanie toss you granola bars so you don't starve. Or Daisy tell one of her bad and, frankly, horrifying jokes. There's nothing forcing Georgie to text you memes! What, you think everyone you work with just happens to have really bad taste and unanimously decided to cozy up with a monster? Something inhuman and dangerous? No self-preservation here, folks!_

_I... Okay. I'm not saying you're not dangerous. I think we all are now, really. ... even me. Ha. Sometimes. But c'mon, my cat is dangerous when she puts her mind to it, so that doesn't mean a damn thing. That's all you are, Jon. A grumpy, half-feral, adorable cat who thinks the whole world's out to get him despite everyone bringing him inside and, I don't know, spending fifty pounds on a bed and new toys. It doesn't add up! You being some inhuman monster doesn't make sense, not to me, and if I'm being honest, I think you're being pretty dumb about the whole thing. Jonathan Sims, brilliant researcher, Archivist extraordinaire, but dumb as a bag of bricks when it comes to everything else._

_...That last bit was a little mean. Sorry. But it's true. I'm not taking it back. I... I'm just going to keep drinking this, because I deserve to get drunk every once in a while and rant about my boss. Besides, it's not like you're ever going to hear this. I'm drunk, but I'm not that drunk. Just needed to say it all to someone, I guess, and whoever—whatever—listens to these tapes, well... that's fine. I don't mind if they hear. Not anymore._

_I'll tape over this in the morning._

_Goodnight, Jon._

With a groan Jon raised his head from his hands and finally, beautifully, the laughter came. 

A good thing. It was always better than crying. 

***

Across the hall, Martin was having a panic attack. 

Not a literal one. Not the sort that had come after Prentiss, or Elias, or, hell, most of what they got up to these days. He was fine, really, with the exception that he'd drunkenly spilled his guts to a tape recorder last night and now _couldn't find it_. 

"It was here," he told the empty room. Or, maybe not so empty. Martin wasn't sure if fear entities were capable of listening to him without a recording, but given the ever-present feeling of being watched, it was a safe bet. "I know it was here because I saw it when I came in. I put the first tape in Jon's office and I kept the second to burn at my earliest convenience, except—!" Martin threw up his hands, turning in the mess he'd made of his space. "It's gone. _How_ is it gone? Did, did you—?" 

His eyes narrowed on another tape, a new one, sitting innocently atop all the papers he'd yet to sort through this morning. But that tape definitely hadn't been there a moment before. Martin approached, watching the wheels turning round and round behind their little window. Something worth recording then. 

He sucked in a long breath through his teeth. "Did the other tape _leave_?" 

No answer of course, but there was a knock at his door. Three precise raps that Martin heard in his dreams, sometimes the beginnings of a fantasy, more often a polite cry for help that he never could quite answer. He considered pretending he wasn't here, but... well. There was a certain level of stupid even he wasn't willing to stoop to. 

"C-come in, Jon. Come in." 

As Jon slipped inside he felt like Martin Blackwood again. _Just_ Martin Blackwood, the anxious, bumbling archive assistant whose greatest fear was that his boss would discover a forged resume. Jon had that ability, to strip away years of experience until Martin was a stuttering mess again, barely able to look him in the eye. It should have been infuriating and, truthfully, it sometimes was, but more often than not it was a comfort. A return to something Martin too often thought he'd lost entirely. He'd never hated himself, not really, just hated that other people never seemed to like him. Then the Archives changed him whether he wanted that or not. So finding that Martin Blackwood sometimes, the old one, even after everything was... nice. 

Too bad he was also about to re-experience the version of himself that Jon wanted to toss off a cliff. 

"I know why you're here," Martin said, already trying to ward off the tirade with hands extended outwards, beseeching. "Not _know_ -know, obviously, but it's not hard to figure out with your, um... stony expression and everything! Look, if this is about the second tape I'm sorry. You weren't even supposed to hear that. And if it's not about that can you maybe forget I ever mentioned it? But I'm not apologizing for the first—" 

Jon let him ramble on as he crossed the room, dragging his feet through all the stuff that had been tossed to the floor. Martin thought it was due penance on his part until he realized, up close, that Jon didn't look mad at all. 

"Hold on. Are you...?" 

A tape was set down on his desk, filling the space between them. Jon's burned hand reached, pulled back, and then quickly rushed forward to press 'Play.' 

His own voice engulfed the room. 

_Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding Martin Blackwood's investigation into my own humanity. Statement given February 7th, 2017. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement begins._

_Martin I... I want to start with an apology. No doubt I owe you a great number, but I have to start somewhere, yes? This seemed the most pressing, given that I am making my mistake as we speak. As_ I _speak. You deserve far better than a parody of a statement as your response, hastily given as I loom over you—_

Martin's eyes flicked to Jon, staring so hard at the carpet he might as well be seeing the tunnels underneath. He wasn't looming though, just... shrinking. 

_—but you should know by now that my skill in such matters remain unsatisfactory. I was hoping to... I don't know. Tap into the Beholding's power? Draw on whatever helps people give their statements honestly and with some modicum of skill? That it would make this easier, to be blunt. I'm not sure that it has._

_Your argument, while rambling and often far too subjective for a critic any more rigorous than a year sixth instructor, was... sufficient for what I think you were trying to accomplish. Thank you. I know you deserve more than that. Two hours worth of content derived from what I gather was weeks of work cannot be appropriately acknowledged with just two, tripe words. But I'm afraid it's all I have to offer right now, given the comparative importance of your second tape._

Martin flinched. "Jon, I—" 

"Hush." 

Not harsh or cruel or dismissive. Quiet though. Pleading, perhaps. 

_Heaven help me if I know how to respond to that one. Humph. Heaven. If it does exist—which at this point I very much doubt—there are far bigger problems I would like for it to help us with, so I suppose I'm on my own with this one. I have always considered myself a practical man and if it's possible to complete two tasks with one action, all the better. So, ah... tea?_

Martin blinked. 

_Gods that was terrible. What I meant to say, ask, is whether you would like to—to go get tea. With me. Go out with me, Martin, in case I've yet to make that clear. My apologies. I know I'm no good at this sort of thing. I can count the number of dates I've had on one hand, even if I had successfully cut off my finger, and each time I found myself at a loss for what to say, or do, or... or even what the_ point _of it all was. That won't be a problem here, I'm sure, provided you... if you're willing to give me that chance. Give me that chance still, I suppose._

_Right then. Feel free to give your response now. A simple 'Yes' will suffice or—or tell me to get out. It's fine if you do that. Really._

_Statement ends._

A 'Yes' or a 'Get out.' It wasn't even a choice and Martin could already feel his answer bubbling up, a single syllable so loud and joyous it would shake the foundation of the Institute, likely scaring Jon off in the process. His mouth went so far as to form the word, yet somehow, what came out instead was, 

"You tried to cut off your finger?" 

Jon's head snapped back up, freezing. Martin didn't need to be a part of the Hunt to see the prey in him. "Um..." 

" _You tried to cut off your finger?_ " 

"It was for Daisy!" he cried. "And you weren't around—" 

"Like with a _KNIFE_?!" 

"—and do you really want to discuss this _now_?" 

Martin paused. He hadn't realized he'd gotten so close, around the desk and straight through the personal bubble that was an ever present part of Jonathan Sims. Pop it went. The only other sound was the whirring of their tape and Jon himself, his chest heaving. 

"No," Martin said. "No, I want to discuss it over tea." 

"Over—? Oh!" Jon's glasses had always been just a smidge too large to be stylish. Now the lenses magnified his already widening eyes, tripling their size. He looked like a flustered bug and, for all his fury, Martin felt a smile tugging at his lips. 

"With me?" 

"No, Jon, with Basira. Of _course_ with you. I can't very well yell at you if you're not there." 

"Right... right. Should I—?" Jon stopped, shaking his head. There was a rueful smile now and two spots of color sitting high on his cheeks. "I see. Then I heartily accept. Though will there be anything other than yelling during this, uh... tea?" 

He hadn't meant to, Martin knew that, but there was compulsion flowing through the question nonetheless, ripping sentence after sentence from him before he'd even realized they were gone. 

"Of course. We're going to have a full spread lunch because you're a twig and I've wanted to buy you an egg salad sandwich ever since you said you basically lived off them in uni. You're going to talk and I'm going to be quieter than usual because I want to remember everything you say for when we're separated again, and also because I love listening to your voice. I'm going to spend a lot of that time debating whether it's too cheesy to read you one of my poems off my phone, or if it would be better to scribble one on a napkin in the bathroom and try to slip it into your bag so you can find it later and think of me. They'll be cake for dessert and I'll buy extra tea for you to take home. If things go really well I'll casually give you a spare key I had made over a year ago, claiming it's just a safety precaution, but I'll desperately hope you use it just because you want to." 

Martin's mouth snapped shut. 

"Oh _gods_ , Martin, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, it's alright, I—" 

Their words cancelled each other's out until they deflated, laughter rising up instead. Jon ran a hand through his hair, gripping tight at the roots. "Fuck. Are you prophetic now?" 

"No, just... had a lot of time to think about it, I guess." 

"Hmm." Jon's hand changed direction, reaching instead to cup Martin's cheek, still burning hot and heavy in his palm. Two hours worth of arguments, but he said everything he'd wanted to right now, in this single act of trust. 

"I'm not human," Jon whispered. 

Martin's eyes slipped shut and he turned, pressing a kiss into his palm. "You're close enough."

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. For me. I mean, this is pretty human, isn't it?" 

Jon couldn't say. All he knew was that Martin deserved the world and whatever feeble things it might still offer him. Tea. Poetry. Drunkenly yelling at his boss. He was another feeble thing while Martin was owed the epitome of humanity as his partner... but he'd chosen him instead. So Jon supposed the only thing left to do was spend the rest of his life working to prove that thesis correct. 

He might as well start now. 

Up on tip-toe Jon pressed his lips to Martin's, tentative for only a moment before trembling fingers slipped into his hair, pulling him closer. They were ill-fitting for one another. Martin too tall and Jon's lips too chapped, the two of them trying desperately to fit with all the grace of a paradox, bumping noses and clashing teeth a reminder of why it all shouldn't work.

It worked anyway. They carved out space for one another and Jon catalogued every tiny blip and mistake with a growing reassurance. Very human indeed. 

Behind them the tape ran on, recording all that was memorable.


End file.
